


molten euphoria.

by rxtrogression



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: 70s vibes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Newt, Gally is a Big Bad Boss™, M/M, New York, Not A Happy Ending, The Apollo Gs is a band, frypan is siggy, get it? bc apologies.. apollo.. gs.., i swear it sounds better in the story, newt is a suave fucker, newtmas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13879407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxtrogression/pseuds/rxtrogression
Summary: “My, my, simple sir,” the blond drawls, turning his attention to a bedraggled Thomas. “Fancy seeing you here on time.”





	1. into plumes.

**Author's Note:**

> here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/xretrograde/playlist/254u6DAQOIhFbHtYFnV4sS?si=m0WXDcofTjmkhiC2HCPnvw) if you wanna vibe with The Glade. 
> 
> rating might change to mature or explicit later.

Newt exhales, the burn of smoke searing pleasantly at the back of his throat. He watches apathetically as the smog rises up in the night sky. Swallows. Shivers. Nights are cold in New York, and flashing neon lights at each end of the alley do nothing but illuminate the soft drizzle around him. His head is pounding in time with the subdued music of the bar behind him. With another slow drag of his cigarette, he closes his eyes. Exhales again. His small moment of reprieve is merely that; a moment. The door behind him swings open. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Gally, probably fumbling with his own box of cigarettes. 

 

“Time’s up, bud,” The _tshk_ of the lighter is enough to bring Newt back down to reality, and he flicks his hand, ashes falling to the cobbled street. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

The Glade is a 70s bar-lounge, fit with velvet booths and decked out in soft red. The air is heavy with perfume and smokey intimacy; a rather lovely affair. Not exactly what Newt would call high-end, but they make enough money to keep it going. He slides behind the bar, shedding his black overcoat, and begins to clean the countertop with a spare rag. Not out of necessity, but more to appease Gally’s obsession with cleanliness. Several tables are dotted with occupants, and the room is alive with a low murmur. 

 

They’re scheduled to have a band come in tonight— some alternative or indie group. Newt doesn’t care, not really, but part of his job requires getting performers settled, and they’re _late_. Gally’s already switched the music to something softer and dimmed the lights. The mood is set. 

 

11:33 PM.

 

His head continues to throb. It’s going to be a long night.

 

Almost unfortunately, the doors burst open to reveal a bedraggled brunet struggling with an amp, the familiar, always-smiling face of Siggy Freud, and a tall beauty on her phone. 

 

“Freud,” Newt flashes his easiest smile and tilts his head in acknowledgement. “New people?”

 

The man’s grin grows impossibly wider. “You didn’t hear?” Raising an eyebrow, Newt leans against the countertop, seemingly intrigued.

 

“‘fraid not.” From the corner of his eye, Newt spots Gally entering from the back, wiping his hands dry. Newt might as well have some fun; he can blame it on the headache, later. “Care to enlighten a poor, misinformed employee?” He asks pointedly, just loud enough to reach his boss. A muted _sod off_ is all he gets in response, but it’s enough to stretch Newt’shalf-smile into something almost genuine.

 

Siggy snorts at that. “Sure, sure,” his hands come up, waving away his laughter, and his eyes twinkle in the rosy light. “Hot mess on my left is Thomas Stephens. Hot chick on my right? Teresa Agnes.” It clicks, then, and Newt feels _so_ very stupid.

 

These are the Apollo Gs.

 

If Siggy’s amused _hah_ is anything to go by, Newt’s lightbulb appears to have visibly switched on.

 

“My, my, simple sir,” the blond drawls, turning his attention to a bedraggled Thomas. “Fancy seeing you here on time.”

 

The brunet flushes at that, visible even against the plush red of the establishment.

 

“Sorry we’re late,” he offers. “Can you help us get going?” Thomas’ southern accent is surprising, but Newt’s too tired to dwell on that.Gally shoots his employee a hard look, but gives a dazzling smile to the band before them.

 

“‘Course. Ignore Newt here.” Gally’s voice is reassuring. Comforting. A group of glittering young women come bustling in, and with a cheeky grin, Newt excuses himself. His boss can take care of the band— he’s got several beauties to charm.

 

-

 

Newt doesn’t know how to describe the Apollo Gs. Thomas and Teresa make quite a pair, sultry voices smooth over mesmerizing guitar riffs and jazz percussion. Ecstasy drips off Thomas’ lips. Their music is orgasmic, the psychedelia numbing Newt’s migraine. 

 

The Glade is bustling with activity tonight, and in the midst of it all, the Brit finds himself enjoying it. There’s a reason he’s stuck with this job for six years, and it’s not only to pay the bills while he does his Master’s degree. 

 

This.

 

The sensuality of the atmosphere, the classic vibes, the pseudo-retro feel— he fucks with this. And by the time the band is done their gig, at around one in the morning, Newt’s still not off his high.

 

Thomas approaches him at the bar, shouldering equipment in a duffel bag. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled up, and the bottom is slightly untucked from his jeans. He looks like a mess, but Newt’s vest and pristine collar feel a little suffocating upon the sight nonetheless.

 

“Hey man,” the brunet starts, voice raspy. “I just wanted to apologize for being late again.”

 

Newt fixes him with what he hopes is an amused look. “Sure.”

 

Thomas fiddles with the strap of his bag, gaze flitting up for a moment before returning back to the ground. 

 

“We’re, ah. Booked to play here next week,” haltingly, he clasps his hands together, and looks carefully at Newt.

 

“Well? Out with it.”

 

Clears his throat. “Maybe if, you know, I got your number, I could, um.” Thomas looks like a lost puppy. It’s almost cute. “Let you know when we’re on our way and stuff, so you, ah, won’t have to wait.”

 

“Seriously?” Newt blinks. He’s unimpressed, to say the least. Thomas seems to think so too, and he flushes red again.

 

“Just,” he groans. “Forget it. I’ll see you around.” 

 

Newt doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment. 

 

“No, no. Hey,” he strides out from behind the bar, stopping Thomas in his tracks. “Give me your phone.” Thomas’ expression is one akin to a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar, a comical sight despite the awkwardness of the situation. Nevertheless, he fumbles with the device in his hands, then hands it to Newt. Their fingertips brush against each other, and to the blond’s minor disgust, Thomas is _sweaty._

 

When the band leaves and Minho’s come in for his shift, it strikes Newt that maybe, just _maybe_ , Gally’s germaphobic behaviour has rubbed off on him. He inconspicuously squirts hand sanitizer onto his palm and rubs hastily. The liquid isn’t completely dry when he pulls out his mobile and tries to make a contact for Thomas, and that’s why the name glaring up at him is Tommy Stephens. Honestly.

 

(A small, small voice at the back of his mind pipes up. _You’re just making excuses._ )

 

Newt isn’t getting attached to the wreck of a boy he met a few hours ago. He _isn’t._

 

-

 

(It’s only when he’s crashed into his bed, fully dressed and exhaustion present in every pore of his body, that he dreams of flushed cheeks, dark eyes, and breathtaking sonnets falling from rose-coloured lips.)


	2. bloom.

Thomas is a messy texter, Newt is quick to discover. His message to himself was the only one containing any punctuation or capitalization, and he finds himself groaning internally at the awful grammar as he scrolls through their conversation.

 

It’s been nearly a week since meeting Thomas, and Newt can’t help but feel like the Glade doesn’t give off the same mood it did that night. His high isn’t as blissful. He lingers outside smoking for longer. Gally doesn’t say anything, but this sort of behaviour isn’t too out of the ordinary. He’s curled up in bed now, pristine white sheets doing nothing to lessen the distance between his face and his phone. 

 

3:47 AM.

 

His eyes are aching, but reading the past week’s worth of conversation is more entertaining than sleep, and he can’t be bothered to take better care of himself. Pieces of his suit are haphazardly strewn across the beige love-seat in the far corner, the dark hardwood floors, and the living room outside in his and Minho’s two-bedroom apartment. He pulls his blanket up and burrows deeper under the covers.

 

Minho will be back in 15 minutes, give or take. Then it’s classes at NYU. Same old, same old, except— it’s a little different. He’ll be seeing Thomas tomorrow night. Tonight?

 

3:49 AM.

 

Tonight. 

 

(No, he’s _not_ obsessed with Thomas or the Apollo Gs, he tells himself as he nods along to one of their debut EP tracks, playing quietly through his earbuds. He’s not.)

 

**_Saturday, 1:03 AM_ **

 

Tommy: Hi.

 

Newt: Hello.

 

Tommy: heyyy sorry again for today

 

Newt: Don’t worry about it, the first apology was enough.

 

Tommy: yeeah but i still feel? a lil guilty ahaha

 

Newt: Sure.

 

Tommy: u don’t rlly make this easy, do u

 

Newt: What?

 

Tommy: nvm

 

Tommy: gnight newt

 

Newt: Goodnight, Thomas.

 

**_Saturday, 2:04 PM_ **

 

Tommy: bro my heAd

 

Newt: Welcome to the land of the living again, Thomas.

 

Tommy: idek why im texting u about this

 

Tommy: ur probably gonna pull some like

 

Tommy: mom shit

 

Tommy: u seem the type

 

Newt: That’s a fair assumption. You didn’t drink that much last night, though(?)

 

Tommy: oh we went out after

 

Tommy: celebrating a Successful Gig™ n all

 

Tommy: u feel?

 

Newt: … Of course.

 

**_Saturday, 11:30 PM_ **

 

Tommy: yknow i don’t rlly like texting first

 

Tommy: am i bothering u?

 

Tommy: cuz i can like, stop if ur annoyed

 

Newt: Oh no, you’re fine. I’m just not a fan of texting.

 

Tommy: oh

 

**_Sunday, 12:01 AM_ **

Newt: I don’t mind texting you, though.

 

_Read 12:02 AM._

 

-

 

Thomas hadn’t replied to that. Or messaged back until Tuesday. Newt had gone out of his mind, overthinking every word. Wishing he could take back messages. Anything better than radio silence. He busied himself with The Glade and tried his hardest to get lost in the haze of sybaritism. 

 

-

 

**_Tuesday, 8:14 AM_ **

 

Newt: This class is an absolute waste of my time.

 

Tommy: lmaoo where u at

 

Newt: Bilingualism.

 

Tommy: owo linguistics???

 

Tommy: is that why u text like an old person

 

Newt: I don’t text like an old person.

 

Tommy: that’s what someone who texts like an old person would say

 

Tommy: admit it 

 

Tommy: ur not hip with the kids

 

Newt: Sod off, Thomas.

 

Tommy: lmao

 

Tommy: where do u go tho

 

Newt: NYU.

 

Tommy: oh cool. i’m sorta close! at colombia. 

 

Newt: Ivy League, hm? You’d think somebody at Colombia would be better articulated.

 

Tommy: listen, noot noot

 

Tommy: my klutziness is e n d e a r i ng

 

Tommy: its a conscious choice

 

Newt: Never call me “noot noot” again.

 

Tommy: _Image attached (250 KB)_

 

Newt huffs in amusement. Attached was a screencap of Newt’s contact information on Thomas’ phone, his name changed to “noot noot”. He remembers almost snorting audibly in class. Noot noot was humiliating, but he’d concede that it has a certain ring to it. 

 

Newt: Cute.

 

Tommy: uwu

 

**Thursday, 10:11 PM**

 

Tommy: yooo im hyped for tmrw

 

Newt: What’s happening tomorrow?

 

Tommy: bro

 

Tommy: we’re gonna rock ur world tomorrow

 

Newt: Ah, right.

 

Tommy: the whole reason we exchanged numbers smhhh

 

Newt: Oh? I thought it was because you couldn’t resist parting with my exquisite beauty.

 

Tommy: i

 

Tommy: im

 

Newt: Kidding, of course.

 

Tommy: broIHSKJDSJSLFD

 

Tommy: YOU MADE A JOKE

 

Tommy: ASJKDKDLF

-

 

The familiar creak of the door opening causes Newt to flail about gracefully under his sheets. His phone _thuds_ dully on the floor, and Minho’s footsteps fall silent for what feels like forever. Then—

 

“Newt?” The man in question stills, face burning, but out of Minho’s sight. “Dude, what are you doing awake?”

 

Newt really _can’t_ let Minho know, mostly because it’s embarrassing and bizarre, especially for him. So he makes his breathing as even as possible, and tries not to cringe too hard. Minho sighs. The door clicks shut.

 

He knows he’s being ridiculous, and that this little not-crush of his is getting out of hand.

 

Needless to say, he doesn’t get much sleep that night.


	3. basta ya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait oops
> 
> smut warning!

Thomas often wonders how they come to this.

 

In a literary sense, of course— though, the reality of the situation makes the statement rather ironic.

 

_Harder_.

 

He barely processes his head falling back onto the pillow, eyelids half closed in pure, unadulterated pleasure. Newt’s hair tickles his jawline. With every clumsy thrust, Thomas can feel an erratic warming and cooling of his neck as the blond struggles to control himself.

 

He thinks there’s something tragic about it.

 

Newt likes it rough. Likes it when they fall apart just _so_ , likes it when Thomas takes away his suave demeanour. 

 

It’s like Newt In Bed is a different being altogether than Newt Out Of Bed. 

 

Thomas grinds his hips up and _oh, there_. A filthy groan bubbles its way past his lips. The tickling becomes a harsh itch as Newt breathes a laugh, head jerking up slightly. Come morning, there’s probably going to be a ridiculously large mass of purple and blue on his neck, but Thomas almost doesn’t care.

 

He doesn’t care about much anymore, come to think of it.

 

But let’s stop.

 

How did they get here?

 

One moment, Thomas and the Apollo Gs are packing up. The next, Thomas is pressed up against the walls of the back room. Newt’s tongue is in his mouth, and he’s in some euphoric state. Almost violently, they’re rutting against each other, and Thomas is _burning—_ they’ve both got too many layers of fabric between them. But hell knows, Newt is hot like this.

 

There’s hands roaming his chest and a leg between his and the faint sounds of near-animalistic growling in his ears and oh _fuck, fuck me, let me fuck you up the way you’re fucking me up right now—_

 

Newt releases him. His eyes are glimmering black, his lips are swollen, and Thomas is pretty sure he’s ascended to some sort of sixth plane right now. It’s pretty awesome, actually, because Thomas is up there too, mind cloudy with thoughts of psychedelia and red hot sex.

 

So it’s pretty much a surprise when Newt trails a hand down his hip and traces the tenting in his jeans, only to smirk and leave him in the room alone.

 

If Newt wants to play hard to get, he can _get_ hard to get. If that even makes any sense. Thomas doesn’t really have any functional brain power right now, not with Newt hitting that sweet spot. All he can do is clench around the cock up his ass, rake his nails down Newt’s back, and listen to the stream of incoherent filth against his neck.

 

They’ve stopped texting. Or, at least, Thomas has. Newt was never really one for it. But Thomas doesn’t know how to talk to the blond anymore without dropping some ridiculous hint about his horniness. It’s like this huge elephant in the metaphorical room. Sometimes literal room. Mostly bedroom. Thomas’ bedroom, to be precise, because Newt doesn’t stay.

 

Newt never stays.

 

Newt’s got this raging crush on him and he _knows_ , don’t think for a second that he doesn’t know. He’s not a fucking ivy for nothing. 

 

Again: fucking _tragic._

 

They could be so much more than fuckbuddies right now. Because that’s what they are, right? Repeated one night stands. Newt vehemently denies any sort of strings attached, occasionally gets it on with other people, and fits the fuckboy bartender stereotype _perfectly_. Thomas is head over heels.

 

Fuck, Newt even smokes after sex. Like they’re in some sort of hipster love arc and this fling will fade away like all his other flames.

 

“More,” he rasps out, so, _so_ close to coming. He’s on a knife’s edge, walking the tightrope between the blurred lines of You’re Not Fucking Me Hard Enough and You’re Fucking Me Up. Newt brings his head up (wow, was it always so cold-?) and attacks his lips with a strange eagerness. 

 

A particularly hard thrust. A freeze. Stuttered rhythm and broken moans against his mouth. A half-assed attempt to fuck Thomas while he comes, but Thomas couldn’t really care less, not with heat filling him up, not with Newt kissing him, not with his muscles pulsing around Newt inside him. 

 

His own voice is a broken record of Newt’s name, and with one more rut, Thomas is coming, spasming and struggling to breathe and ensconced in the white light of his orgasm.

 

No, Newt never stays. That’s the problem with fuckboys, see? They come into your life and they mosey their way into your pants and they leave you out to dry.

 

Thomas lies panting on his bed, too tired to clean up the mess of sweat and jizz on his stomach. He went into this knowing what would happen. He wanted this. _He wanted this._

 

He closes his eyes. Newt pulls out.

 

If he tries, he can imagine the blond’s mouth curling in a faint sneer as he wipes Thomas’ come off. The faint rustling of clothes and the cold absence by his side are the only indicator’s of Newt’s departure.

 

“Stay,” he whispers. The sounds stop.

 

Then Thomas feels a ghostly press of lips against his temple, and moments later, hears the sound of Newt walking out of his life.

 

He should’ve known this molten euphoria was too good to last.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr!](http://rxtrogression.tumblr.com/)
> 
> un-beta'd as of march 5, but that might change.


End file.
